Homecomings

I'm sorry I wasn't here to welcome you; we rode the High Hay all afternoon.

I hardly expected to see you again, with Crickhollow destroyed. We cried our tears, but then dried our cheeks. Those were busy days.

Now you return to us. Your foreign cloak hangs by the door, your arm rests at an odd angle against your chest. There is some tale to be told! And I will hear it, soon.

But sleep now, son. Breathe in Buckland's air, and know that your father sits by your side.